submerged in you
by hystericalcherries
Summary: Not for the first time, it hits Keith how frustratingly good Lance is at this. / A klance drabble.


The body next to him shifts.

Eyelashes flutter and muscles jump delicately under smooth skin, the telltale signs of wakefulness. And Keith watches, enthralled by the whisper of breath that slips out of parted lips, the slight furrow of eyebrows trying to express dreamlike emotions, and the cute scrunch of a nose. He watches and doesn't pull away when hands, tan and soft and warm, tangle themselves with his night shirt, pulling him close with a lazy need.

Even half unconscious Lance demands attention. He knocks over the invisible barrier between them with not a thought, smooshing Keith's face against his with a nonsensical mumble.

"Hey," he breathes, not wanting to break the bubble of quiet comfort that envelops them. It isn't often that such a moment persists in the constant stream of action and frayed nerves that runs their lives, and he'd rather enjoy it while he can.

Lance's eyes crinkle in a smile. "Hey yourself."

"Sleep well?"

As an answer, Lance stretches out his long limbs; Keith can feel the muscles of his calves where their legs tangle and appreciates the familiar weight of the arm that snakes around his waist. And the noise that sneaks out of Lance's mouth, a mixture of a groan and sigh, entirely satisfied, has his blood rushing and his fingers twitching where they're trapped between their chests.

He wonders if Lance would want to fool around so early in the morning, would mind if he leaned forward and mapped every expanse of skin available to him. He would willingly do it too, ravage the boy in front of him without a second's notice, playing close attention to the places that makes him squirm and breath hitch. He could do it, just reach out and-

"What about you?"

Keith tears his gaze away from the elegant curve of neck and back to the other's eyes. "What?"

Wakefulness colors Lance's eyes, adding to the eye roll that's directed his way. "Don't tell me you stayed up all night again?"

"Okay, I won't."

His boyfriend groans into the sheets. "Keith, you're killing me. No, I'm serious- I can physically feel wrinkles forming and soon, I'll be nothing but a raisin people used to call Lance. With such bad crow's feet, death is all but eminent."

Now it's Keith's turn to roll his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"Hey, I may be ridiculous, but I'm also the one getting a full eight hours of sleep."

"Whatever," he says.

He twists and cranes his head toward the clock stationed on the lone desk of the room, squinting to read it upside down. The numbers are a reminder of their shared responsibilities to the universe and he exhales loudly, knowing he'll be regretting the lack of sleep later; he silently mourns the end of this moment and tries to file it all away for later, taking extra care to memorize the pattern of the pillow crease pressed into Lance's cheek and the way his chest moves every time he breathes.

"We might as well get up. Breakfast's in an hour-"

"I believe the space term is 'vargas'- get with the program. I mean, _honestly_."

"-and I have training with Pidge straight after." He moves to rise, ignoring the disgruntled whine from his bedmate when cool air sneaks into their cocoon of sheets. "Didn't you promise Coran you'd help clean the teleduv today?"

Lance sighs dramatically, pushing Keith back down. "Chores, even chores in space, are boring and, anyway, I'm sure he'd understand if I took a sick day. Besides, I'd so rather chill in bed all day with my cute boyfriend." The blue paladin perks up, unaware at how the words, though flippant in tone, are honest and do a good job at getting his heart to skip a beat. "Ooh, we can have a lazy day. I haven't had one is such a long time."

"I don't think-"

"Nope, sorry, can't hear you over sound of my awesome idea."

As if to back his statement, Lance attaches himself to Keith, long arms and legs wrapping around him like a gangly octopus. Keith instinctively tries to pull away, struggling to breath from where his face is plastered against a hard chest. The smell of cinnamon and disinfectant overrides his senses.

"Lance," he huffs, unable to fight the tinge of amusement at his boyfriend's antics. "We can't."

"Can't or won't?" There is no time to answer, because now Lance is shifting his limbs, skin sliding against skin. He reaches down and angles Keith's head, pouting. "Oh, c'mon Keith, I think we deserve a day off. We work hard and save the universe every quintant. Plus, don't you want to stay here," Lance breathes against his mouth, ghosting over the swell of his bottom lip, "with me?"

Keith wants to argue against the low tactic (because _that's totally not fair_ and _of course he does_ ), but is efficiently distracted by the presence of fingers sneaking under his shirt and brushing along his lower back. It's nice and sends a shot of electricity up his spine, muscles moving involuntarily with the touch. And Lance takes advantage of this, moving down and depositing a lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw. Then his neck is next, subjected to a series of nips and focused attention that has him arching his head back to allow for more access. Keith takes deep breaths, unsure where to look in this time of stimulated awareness, but eventually grounding himself in the twinkling stars shining through the window above them.

Not for the first time, it hits him how frustratingly good Lance is at this.

Even in the beginning, when they were nothing but a fumbling mess, Lance had always shown a certain resilience when it came to the awkward parts. Unlike Keith, whose instincts are near worthless in this new level of intimacy, Lance is a natural; when a bump in the road appears he merely lets out an embarrassed laugh or grumble, soothing Keith's nerves with the knowledge that he is not alone.

He remembers the first time they had made out, seated on Keith's bed after a mission.

"This is so awkward," Lance had said then, pulling away when their teeth had clacked painfully against each other for a second time in the last three minutes. A huff of laughter had hit Keith's face until it was smothered against the junction where his neck met his shoulder; it was a weird feeling, skin tingling where he could feel Lance's lips moving in a smile. "We're terrible at this."

"We can stop if you want," Keith had suggested then, worry niggling its way in his stomach as he began to retract the hand that was braced on the other's hip.

"What? Stop? No way." Lance sounded almost offended at the suggestion, head rearing back to look the dark haired boy in the eye critically. His gaze flickered, trying to guess Keith's own feelings on the matter. "Unless you want to stop? Then we can totally hit the breaks and pick it up later. No rush or anything."

He had liked the way Lance had phrased it, the uncertainty dissipating with the honest expression sent his way. There was no pressure- no tests to pass, no people to impress, no opinions to uphold. It was just them, fumbling together.

"I'm good," he had assured, clearing his throat. "Let's- keep going."

Lance had grinned then, obviously relieved, and had scooted closer until they were once again breathing the same air. Hands that trembled slightly had guided his own back to their place on narrow hips before sliding up to loosely grip around his shoulders. Then it had been just a matter of leaning in and...

Keith's eyes flutter open at the prick of teeth at his collarbone.

Lance's hand is a fixed pressure at his back, pushing their bodies closer so that Keith is more aware of the burning in his gut. It's delicious friction, satisfying in the way it leaves him wanting more and itching to have skin sail over skin.

He hooks an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders while a pale hand squirms between them, scraping blunt nails over the stretch of an exposed stomach.

Lance groans, pulling off his pulse point with an arousing _pop_.

Blue eyes, heavy lidded and feverishly bright, meet his; the entirety of the universe swims in the pool of emotion held in his gaze, whispering its secret to him, and him alone. It's a heavy burden, and it scares him a little. Scares him because it is all encompassing, a plunge that he had taken without even knowing how to swim, and now he is lost at sea, never to return.

But, the strange thing is, he doesn't mind drowning. Not like this. Doesn't mind taking this jump if Lance is there with him.

Keith leans forward and, tentatively at first, presses their lips together. It turns more solid with a familiar slant of their lips and a hot swipe of tongue along the crease of Keith's mouth. The kiss is slow, but firm, an assurance of intent and feeling and promise that they have yet to speak aloud.

It's different. Different from the chaste pecks they bestow upon one another during training and missions. Different than the desperate gasps they exchange as they grind against each other in small alcoves hidden among the ship's countless halls. Different than the fleeting, secret touches they give during diplomatic meetings, shoulders bumping and hands brushing. Different from what he remembers their first kiss being, all stiff backs and blushing faces. It's different and new and it has a smile unfurling onto his face.

Lance pulls back at the first laugh, blinking in muted surprise.

Bubbles of stars float in the cage of his ribs, a nebula of fluttering heartbeats, expanding with every wondrous breath and lingering touch. They shine, illuminating the shadows of deep space until the light of this sensation is the only thing left, leaving him bursting at his seams, weightless. It feels a lot like flying.

"What's so funny?" Lance asks, and there's this half smile on his lips.

"I don't know," he mumbles with a small shrug, nuzzling in the space between their pillow and the other's cheek. "M'just happy."

And he is- he really is.

The bed shifts and Keith peers up through the curtain of his bangs, watching Lance brace his weight onto his elbow so that he can properly lean over Keith. The walls of the castle disappear, replaced by the sight of a brilliant smile dawning over the horizon of dimpled cheeks and a stubborn chin. Fingers brush strands of black hair out from his face, frighteningly gentle and intimate.

"Yeah?" his boyfriend murmurs, almost shyly.

"Yeah."

Lance hiccups a small laugh, sweet in melody. "Good," he says, noses bumping. "Me too."


End file.
